


iceberg

by seventhstar



Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Bingley With A Spine, Character Study, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 14:09:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17469062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: Still waters run deep.So it was with Jane Bennet.





	iceberg

Still waters run deep.

So it was with Jane Bennet. To her mother, she was the Bennet family’s best hope of avoiding an ignominious end in the hedgerows; to her father, she was his second favorite child, more sensible than the younger three but without the similarity of disposition that made Elizabeth his favorite; to her three younger sisters, she was all the steadiness and sweetness they looked for in a mother, but without any of the authority. To the ladies of Meryton, she was the rival they longed to hate; to the gentlemen she was the standard by which all other female beauty was measured.

All her life, Jane had enduring the crowing of her mother over her beauty, which Mrs. Bennet seemed to see as a compliment to herself. Being constantly thrust forward from the moment she was old enough to draw the eyes of men, Jane’s upbringing had fed her natural horror of conflict, of unkindness. Her defense against the humiliation of her mother’s every word and action was to maintain in herself a serene countenance; her defense against the mockery her mother made of herself and others was to never speak an unkind word.

But beneath that veil of goodness, she was neither naïve nor foolish. She merely wished for a better world than the one that was, and by word and deed always sought to make it so.

No one was dearer to Jane than her sister, Elizabeth, who was everything she was not: lively, intelligent, witty, quick to judge, and possessing great confidence in her own discernment. It was Elizabeth alone who Jane felt truly understood her. What Jane could conceal from the world, she could not from her Elizabeth, whose dark eyes seemed to see directly into her heart.

And yet, Jane mused, as she walked up the road towards Longbourn, there were things about her that Lizzy did not know. For as Jane was the elder, and as Elizabeth, in their tumultuous family, had lacked for models of female propriety, Jane was as much idol to her as she was confidant. Elizabeth would crow to anyone who would listen of Jane’s goodness, her sweetness, her perfection in every quarter. And so Jane, even when she wished to scream and rage, could not unburden herself to her sister; she had no wish to disturb Elizabeth’s faith in her, and ruin one of the few bastions of peace that she had.

All morning, Jane had walked the fields of Longbourn, taking baskets of food and medicine and blankets to the tenants. She was not a great walker as her sister was, but there was no one else to do it. Mrs. Bennet did not attend to anything beyond Longbourn’s walls, Mr. Bennet could not be roused from his bookroom, her three youngest were not sensible of anything but their own pleasure, and Elizabeth was well capable but never did. As Elizabeth was her father’s favorite, she was included in those tasks that were traditionally a man’s; that left much of the work of the mistress of the house in Jane’s hands.

On this morning, Jane thought of none of this. Her whole mind and heart were consumed with a certain gentleman, who had lately come into the neighborhood and ensnared her. It was all the worse for her, because Jane’s worst fear was that a man would fall in love with her face and nothing more. Having gone much of her life prized for only the image she showed to the world, Jane’s ideal of marital felicity was also of perfect honesty between herself and her husband. Mr. Bingley was all that a gentleman should be, she thought, and what half hours they spent in conversation made Jane feel quite as ease. But she could not close her ears to gossip, as much as she would have wished to, and the refrain was the same on everyone’s lips.

_Of course Mr. Bingley is in love with Jane Bennet! She’s the most beautiful woman in Meryton. It is just as well that she is, too, with no dowry, four sisters, and Longbourn entailed away._

Lost in thought, she did not give her surroundings the attention she ought. When Mr. Bingley came around the corner and saw her, she nearly walked past him without a word.

“Miss Bennet!”

“Oh! Mr. Bingley. Good morning.”

She curtsied; he bowed.

“How lovely it is to you,” he said. “May I escort you?”

“Oh,” Jane said, for it was not precisely appropriate, “that would be very good of you.”

So Mr. Bingley took up his place at her side, careful to keep himself between her and the road. He offered her his arm, which she took; even through her gloves and his sleeves, she felt the warmth of it, and shivered.

“Were you walking out, Mr. Bingley?”

“As it happens,” Mr. Bingley blushed, and he looked determinedly at the ground, “Miss Bennet, I must confess, I have deceived you.”

“I am sure that is not so.”

“I have just come from Longbourn, after calling on your family. Your mother told me where I might find you—you must forgive her, as she could not know my true purpose—and I have been walking here some time, looking for you.”

“Then you have not deceived me,” Jane said, and she smiled, “for all you have said to me is ‘good morning’, and I hope that was not an untruth.”

“Indeed not—at least—I hope—”

Mr. Bingley sputtered, and then fell silent. Jane did not disturb him, as she could see in his face that he was in the grip of some turmoil; his countenance gave everything away. He must be terrible at cards, she thought.

“Miss Bennet,” Mr. Bingley said, “do you care for me?”

“Mr. Bingley—”

“I know it is wrong of me to ask,” he continued, and he came to a stop and turned towards her. For a moment she thought he might take her hands, but he did not; he only stood there, a hair closer than politeness would allow, and stared at her with more intensity than he had ever shown her in a drawing room. “But I cannot make you out, you see. I would swear on my life that you have shown some partiality, and yet…you are so serene, so calm. And so kind. I am in agony, wondering if I have assigned more importance than is ought, to your incredible kindness to myself. And now expectations are such…”

“Mr. Bingley, please—”

“I should not like to torment you by courting you against your will,” he said. Jane’s heart, already given, beat for him anew; his consideration for her feelings was all she could wish for and more. “I only wish to know, do you care for you? Could you love me, if I endeavored to make it so?”

“I do.”

This was more than Jane had ever dared to say to any man. She clamped her hand over her mouth, ashamed and thrilled by her own daring.

“I am sorry, Miss Bennet—I shan’t detain you, forgive me—”

“I do care for you,” Jane said.

“Oh, Jane,” Mr. Bingley said; when he saw Jane bloom, cheeks scarlet, he stumbled through an apology. “May I—but no, you are too steady, you would never act as impulsively as I—may I call on you again tomorrow?’

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

It was great reluctance that Mr. Bingley returned to Netherfield; he walked with Jane a great deal, until they were almost in sight of the house. Jane could not fault him his devotion but knew what raptures her mother would experience if she saw them out together unchaperoned. It was possible that she would declare Jane compromised to fix the match properly.

She watched Mr. Bingley hurry across the grass, turning ever so often to look at her; it was only when he was out of sight that she sighed and made her way down to the house.

In the drawing room, Kitty and Lydia were quarreling fiercely over a bonnet; Mary was playing the piano with great force and little skill; and Mrs. Bennet was lying on a sofa, smelling salts in hand, bemoaning the injustice of having five daughters, none of them inclined to catch husbands while they had their looks.

“Really, Jane,” Elizabeth said, as Jane sat beside her and took up her embroidery, “I don’t know how you manage it! Among this chaos you are an oasis.”

Jane said nothing; she only smiled, a small smile that belayed the tumult in her breast. Already, she was counting the hours until tomorrow morning; the noise in the drawing room she heard not at all.


End file.
